West Coast Liberty
by ImpliedReality
Summary: A confident loan shark with big dreams; a bored twenty-something with no dreams. They're not entirely sure how, but together they'll take on the world...well, maybe just Los Santos. For now.
1. The Applicant

Howard Galt scanned the résumé in front of him, feeling a diverse flurry of different emotions – confusion, incredulity, and astonishment all bundled into one foul cocktail. There was nothing spectacular about the résumé, and that's exactly why he had been thrown for a loop. It was painfully below average – one or two past jobs in entirely different fields, no references, a few generic "strengths", all regurgitated into a standard Microsoft Word template. He looked up at the applicant momentarily.

The woman's attention had apparently been lost since he had last said something to her a few moments ago; her gaze wandered off to the left, staring at some unseen point on the blank wall of Howard's office and her index finger lightly tapped out some lethargic, unrecognizable tune. Unlike her résumé, she managed to be brilliantly average looking, for Los Santos at least. She wore a blue skirt and blouse probably bought on sale from Binco and black sneakers. Her most remarkable features, and the ones that kept drawing his attention, were her red hair, dyed a bright shade of pink with purple tips but noticeably fading at the roots, and bright chartreuse eyes that reminded him of a bored housecat. Petite, no noticeable muscle mass, a few years younger than him – 23, maybe, 24…and apparently no qualifications…

Maisie Creed definitely wasn't what Howard was expecting to get when he put out an ad for a "bodyguard and personal assistant". He had almost turned her away immediately simply for being a woman – unless she was truly remarkable, he could certainly find a man much stronger and more intimidating. Something about her made him bring her in to interview though – her sheer audacity in applying for such a position despite apparently not knowing anything about it or the field.

Howard cleared his throat, drawing Maisie's lackadaisical gaze back to him.

"So, uh, Miss Creed." He said, meeting her eyes. The woman's expression was an odd mixture of apprehension that she seemed to be trying to mask with something approaching disdain. "What exactly makes you think you're qualified for this position?

Maisie didn't respond for a few seconds and looked past him, chewing the inside of her cheek. Had she seriously not thought that far into this situation?

"Why not?" She finally replied with an innocent shrug of her shoulders.

Howard wasn't entirely sure how to respond. Surely, she didn't think she was qualified? Or was she trying to bullshit her way into a potentially life-threatening job – some sort of roundabout suicide attempt? With the pink hair, cheap clothes, and generally bad attitude, he wouldn't be horribly surprised.

"Why?" He repeated incredulously. "Because you have no qualifications and your résumé barely qualifies as a résumé itself."

"You're the one who wanted it, dude."

It was his turn not to respond for a bit as he let that response fully sink in. She was either a moron or insane. "Of course I wanted the résumé – when you apply for a job, you usually give the employer a résumé!"

"Even a half-bit loan shark on the East Side?" Maisie spat back with a hint of a chuckle. As if on cue, police sirens screamed past outside.

"Loan shark?" Howard scoffed. "Excuse me?!"

"Just 'cause you name the business something fancy like ' _Galt Financial'_ doesn't mean it isn't a dump next to a meth lab."

"I'll have you know," Howard was getting fired up at the nerve of this little girl now. "that I worked very hard to get where – wait..." He faltered. "A meth lab?"

"Oh yeah," Maisie confirmed. "Timmy and his boys cook it up all night in that laundromat next door."

How the hell had Howard missed _that_? He'd have to…talk to somebody about that; he wasn't sure _who_ yet, but somebody. For now, though, he had to deal with _this_ crazy bitch.

"I think we're done here, Miss Creed." Howard stated flatly, sliding the résumé back across the desk to her and steepling his fingers neatly, hoping he didn't appear as rattled as he was.

Maisie let out a long huff that sent her bangs into a frenzy for a second and stood. "Worth a shot." She replied dismissively, seemingly going to shove her hands in her pockets only to discover that she was in fact wearing a skirt, then picking up the messenger bag at her feet. The woman rolled her eyes and left without another word, leaving the résumé behind, not closing the office door behind her. Howard closely studied her as she left; she was clearly trying to put on a show of confidence with her exaggerated swagger as she walked. From the office in the back, he had a clear view of the front of the business as she exited through the glass door.

After he was sure she was gone for good, Howard sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. It had been two weeks since he put out the ad, and she was his second applicant – the first had been even worse, a meth-head who apparently thought the clouds were screaming at him. Maybe this meant the applicants would start getting better? He groaned and ran his hands through his hair. Unlikely, knowing this fucking city.

Howard stood, looking down ruefully at the abandoned résumé. He exited his office and ascended the stairs to his apartment above his business. Loan shark – bah! He wasn't a loan shark – he was a banker, a businessman! Such a pity that girl's puny mind couldn't wrap itself around that – no, wait, it wasn't a pity because she didn't matter to him! Maisie Creed, as far as he was concerned, was just another nobody millennial trying to make it big in Los Santos and failing miserably at it.

Entering the bathroom, he studied himself in the mirror, feeling the growing black stubble on his face. He looked himself in the eye – his eyes were his best feature, everybody said so. Knowing he was the owner of such brilliant blue orbs filled him pride. God, he was attractive! Looking in the mirror always served to recharge his attitude – how could it not, with such greatness looking back at him?

Feeling better about his admittedly questionable life choices, he turned around in the cramped space to take a leak. As he was finishing the task, he heard muffled shouting coming from outside that he recognized – "Timmy" and his "boys", probably. He vaguely knew his neighbors, but tried his best not to. They were obnoxious assholes masquerading as business owners. Washing his hands, he remembered Maisie's offhand comment – " _Timmy and his boys cook it up all night_ ". Shit.


	2. The Stuff

Howard had always suspected there was something…less than legal happening there, but had never had the desire to act on it. Having confirmation that there was a meth lab right next to his business though? It pissed him off!

Not because he had anything against drugs, really – people could do whatever the fuck they wanted with their own money and their own bodies. It was their right. In this case though, a meth lab right next to his own goddamn business represented too many liabilities and disastrous possibilities to count. He'd go over there right now and demand they move their operation!

Psyching himself up, he walked back downstairs, grabbing his hat on the way – a grey fedora he never left without – and emerged outside into the sun-soaked cacophony of East Los Santos. He walked past the alleyway separating the two businesses and entered the laundromat – " _Tim's Fluff & Fold_" – and approached the counter amidst the dull rumbling of dozens of washing machines.

"Hey!" He said, getting the attention of the attendant absentmindedly looking at their phone. The large black man looked tiredly in Howard's direction.

"What's up, man?" He asked, seemingly friendly enough.

"I need to talk to the manager." Howard stated, crossing his arms.

"What's wrong?"

"I just need to talk to him – right now."

The attendant leered at Howard for a second before calling back over his shoulder. "Hey, Timothy! Some cracker wants to talk to you!" When he got no response, he shook his head. "He's probably outside. Go out that door." Howard nodded and thanked the man, who had been much more helpful than he was anticipating.

He emerged into a small asphalt lot behind the laundromat, where several more men lazed around in the sun sitting in fold-up chairs, chatting with one another. Behind them, a dilapidated old car sat on cinder blocks with tools scattered around it. Their gazes all instantly turned towards Howard.

"Uh, hey there!" Howard exclaimed. "Are one of you Tim?"

A short, and lean man stood. "Yeah, I'm Timothy." He said, seemingly offended that Howard hadn't used the full name. "What do you want, cracker?"

Howard rolled his eyes at the slur on reflex. "Yeah, hi. I'm Howard Galt – I own the bank next door." He moved to shake Timothy's hand, but the motion wasn't reciprocated.

"Bank?" Timothy scoffed, his eyes lighting up a few seconds later. "Oh, shit – you're the fucking loan shark cracker!" He looked over his shoulder at his friends. "This is the cracker I was telling you guys about, the one that thinks he's a fucking _banker_!"

Howard scowled. "I mean, of course I think I'm a banker. I literally _am._ "

Timothy grinned broadly. "Yeah, sure man. You're in on some real Rothschild shit, right?" Howard narrowed his eyes and tried to quickly think of a response, but could find nothing in his arsenal of witty comebacks. "Anyways neighbor, what do you want?" Apparently Timothy was suddenly willing to be more amicable just because Howard had given him a quick laugh.

Howard cleared his throat, feeling his rising blood pressure level off a bit. "Yeah, uh, I've been told that there's been some, uh, _stuff_ happening over here."

Timothy's expression turned confused. "What kind of 'stuff'?" He asked suspiciously.

"The kind of _stuff_ you snort or inject."

Timothy looked around at his friends, who returned his confused looks. He turned back to Howard and took a few steps towards him. "What the fuck are you saying, cracker?"

"I'm saying, you need to move your operation. I know some guys who won't be very happy if you don't."

"You're accusing us of, what – fucking, cooking crank or smuggling coke or some shit?"

"I'm not accusing, I know-"

"Oh, you _know_!" Timothy exclaimed, clasping his hands together, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then show me where this top secret fucking operation is, huh?"

"Don't-"

"I get it!" One of Timothy's compatriots stood as well, approaching Howard, the others following shortly after. "Just because we're _black_ , you think we're peddling fucking drugs!"

"That isn't-"

"You racist piece of shit!" Timothy hissed, grabbing Howard by the collar with surprising strength.

"H-hey! Come on now! I wasn't-"

"I don't wanna hear it, cracker! This is bullshit! How about this-" Timothy produced a knife from his pocket and held it to Howard's throat. He recoiled from the cold steel, but tried not to wriggle for fear he'd be unintentionally cut. "You move _your_ operation – your little 'bank' or whatever the fuck. Loan sharks like you are part of the reason other negroes can't get a break in this town. I feel like it's my civic duty to push you away from a legitimate negro business such a this."

Howard stared blankly back in utter disbelief at how quickly the situation had escalated and gotten away from him. "W-what? I'm not going to, to move my business! I-"

"I'm not giving you a choice, asshole." Timothy growled.

"What…if I refuse?"

" _I know some guys who won't be very happy if you don't_." The man parroted mockingly.

Howard scowled back. Another man – the one who had initially called him racist – spoke up. "Here's an idea – how about we pull out one of this cracker's front teeth, teach him a lesson about tolerance and virtue and shit?"

"And if he doesn't move by the end of the week, we pull out another?" A colleague suggested.

"I like it." Timothy agreed.

"No no no, you can't, you can't do that!" Howard stammered.

"What, you gonna call the coppers on us, Rockefeller?" Timothy mocked. "They'll lock you up for your shit too."

"I haven't done _anything_ illegal!"

"I'm sure." Timothy pointed to something out of Howard's view. "Theodore, give me those pliers." Timothy threw Howard to the ground, knocking the wind out of him, and two other men quickly moved to hold him down. Timothy crouched down over Howard's chest with a pair of pliers. "This is what you get, cracker. Hold his mouth open."

Howard struggled, tried to punch or kick – anything – as he felt the cold metal enter his mouth. God, the risk he took was complicated, but _man was he bad at math_.

Almost as suddenly as the situation escalated, it managed to escalate even further. Timothy was suddenly on the ground, a stone laying next to him.

The two men looked over to the entrance of the lot, standing; another – Theodore – ran to Timothy's side, while the last one picked up a hammer from a pile off tools. Howard let his head roll to the side slightly to look at his savior.

"Look at you," One of them scoffed, looking back at Howard. "Having little white girls coming to your rescue."

At the entrance of the lot, Maisie Creed stood, stance firm, slowly sweeping some sort of short, black firearm around in wide arc between the various men. Jesus Christ, was that what was in her messenger bag?!

"Back off." She growled. The hammer-wielding man made a few quick steps, as if to charge at her. Maisie quickly whirled around and, with pinpoint accuracy, delivered a short bust of bullets that hardly made a sound – why the fuck did she have of suppressed submachine gun on her person? – directly between his feet, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. The woman confidently strode over to the downed man and placed the barrel of the gun against his head as he struggled back to feet. "You let that idiot go, I let this one go." She stated.

The men all looked at each other for a moment, and Theodore – apparently Timothy's second-in-command – nodded. "Get the fuck out of here, cracker." He spat at Howard.

Howard nodded, shaken and confused by this turn of events. He stood and shakily jogged over to Maisie's side, eyeing her warily. The man at gunpoint made his move while Howard distracted her, grabbing the gun and shoving it to the side, delivering a flurry of bullets into the side of the building behind them. Moving much quicker than Howard would've expected, she drove her knee into the man's stomach and produced something that had been wedged in the waistline of her skirt. Within seconds, the man was backing away screaming, hands covering his eyes as mace burned them. For effect, Maisie turned and sprayed the air between her and the other men, as if to stop any charging men she hadn't caught, beginning to swiftly back away down the alleyway, picking up her gun at the same time.

"Sorry about all this." Maisie said, sounding genuinely apologetic as she and Howard exited view.


End file.
